


Oh So Pretty

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 00:51:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16713385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: In response to the challenge for a smut-fest of joyful boning. It was supposed to be happy, laughing sex but turned into more love-filled than fun-filled. But hopefully it’s happy enough to qualify!Set post The Truth, on the run.





	Oh So Pretty

She’s dressed in nothing but a sheet, clutching the bodice to her chest and hitching the back up like a wedding dress train. He’s watching her calves flexing as she tiptoes while she spins. ‘I feel pretty, oh so pretty’. She can’t hold a tune but she does look pretty and witty spinning around as the movie score plays on the small screen. He sinks back against the mountain of soft pillows behind him and commits the memory of Dana Scully dancing to West Side Story to the pocket of his brain where he keeps happy snapshots filed away.

“Do you think I’m pretty, Mulder?” she says with a breathy inflection, and clenches the knot of sheet below her breasts so her soft flesh spills temptingly over the top. He doesn’t get a chance to answer before she’s off again, dancing to her own rhythm, missing entire sections of the lyric.

His hair is still damp from the shower as he presses his head against his locked fingers. His body is thrumming from the shower but his heart is thrumming from what he’s witnessing. They’ve been in a dozen shitty motel rooms during these months on the run, but Scully insisted this weekend they would live it up and book a real fucking hotel, Mulder. There’s a half-empty bottle of Champagne in the ice bucket, a tray of fresh fruit on the small window-side table, luxurious fluffy robes hanging in the bathroom. There is the past behind them. And there is tomorrow in front of them. But now, there is just this.

Without warning, she drops the sheet and shimmies. Naked, she’s glorious. All milk-smooth skin and pink tips. She’s diamond-bright tonight and he loves her all the more for it. A rare glimpse into his ever-surprising Scully. She slow turns now, affording him the whole pretty picture.

God, he loves her. Loves her so much his heart locks up.

She crawls onto the bed, eyes cast down so he sees her lashes, the elegant arch of her nose, the bow of her bottom lip.

She inches closer.

“Life can be bright in America,” she breathes and plants her hands either side of his hips and her knees pin his. Her nipples brush the fine hairs on his chest. Forehead to forehead. There is warmth between them, heat around them. Fusion.

She straightens, hands rolling over his shoulders, tits in his face. He rubs the grooves between each rib; watches the gooseflesh stipple her skin. Her legs clamp his harder, her stomach flat to his chest, his nose buried in her cleavage. He can smell her arousal. His hand slips over her hip, behind, tracking over her fine ass until his fingers slide into the damp valley. Back and forth. Her breath hitches sending her breasts higher.

“If you can fight in America,” he says, base, guttural, when she lowers herself. His cock tightens, follows the same passage as his fingers, soaking in her wet heat.

“Life is all right in America.” Her hair tickles his chest as she kisses him boldly.

Thumbs pressed into the bones of her hips, he swallows her moans as she lets him fill her, inch by inch, a slow-burning burial of all that has gone before. They hold still, muscles clenched, breath in throats. The only movement is their beating hearts, chest to chest. Her fingers are locked around his neck and his hands lay in the gentle slope where her hips meet her ass.

He’s not sure who starts to move first but the friction is delicious. The Jets and the Sharks are warring in the periphery, playing out tragic love; but right now, in this room, there is only deep and true love in motion. She hangs her head back and he scans the length of her neck, chest, stomach. Her hips buck forward and he rolls his pelvis with her.

She is pretty, wildly pretty. Rose-blushed now, sheen with sweat. Nipples peaked. He sees where they are joined, nests of soft hair entwined. He slips a thumb between them and elicits a hiss from her. She brings her head up and smiles at him.

“I like that,” she says. He presses harder and she scrapes her nails across the back of his shoulders.

He likes that she is happy, free. Even if just for this night. It’s gift enough to have her so joyful. He rolls her over so she is underneath him, loose hair fanning around her, thighs bracketing his hips. She nips his collar bone and half-laughs.

“What?”

She does it again, biting harder. “You taste good, that’s all.”

“You’ll leave marks,” he says, sliding back into her as her mouth suctions his shoulder, teeth digging into his skin.

“We’re already marked, Mulder.”

He’s pumping harder and she’s groaning with each thrust. He takes her hands above her head and her breasts push together. She’s pretty, oh so pretty as she comes hard. Beautiful. So fucking amazing. He spills into her and understands what she means.

Marked, branded, hearts tattooed. They are two sides of the same story. A gang of two against the world. Star-crossed once perhaps, but no more.

She shifts out from under him. Grabs the sheet tangled on the floor, wraps it around her and opens the door to the balcony. He follows. Outside, the night sky is sequinned. Moonlight glints off windscreens below. The air is warm still, jasmine scented. Below, there is a wave of laughter from a group of diners. Scully breaks into a giggle and he feels the tingle in his own chest. 

“What’s so funny?” 

She casts a glance over his nakedness and lets the sheet fall, leaning her elbows on the balustrade. “I just want to laugh tonight, Mulder.”

So they do.


End file.
